


we could stay young forever

by the_seventh_avenger



Category: Captain America (Movies), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Captain America AU, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Time Travel, Unrequited Love, also i know it says pete is with both patrick and meagan but it's not a cheating fic is2g, also this is never gonna get finished sorry, bonus points if you catch the parks & rec reference, copious use of the phrase "punch a nazi", he does it all the time, i guess, if you know the mcu fairly well you know who i'm talking about, it's cool tho, later on tho, more characters will be added with the next part sorry, oh the major character death is temporary btw, patrick as bucky barnes, pete as captain america, pete wentz is an idiot who doesn't know he's in love, superheroes starting a band, well not really but they don't know, would be a better description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_seventh_avenger/pseuds/the_seventh_avenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where Pete Wentz is Captain America</p>
            </blockquote>





	we could stay young forever

**Author's Note:**

> okay. if you've never seen the captain america movies, tread lighly - this contains spoilers, and you might get confused if you don't have at least a vague understanding of that universe.
> 
> that being said, this is not my idea - it's actually the brainchild of fatima-fati and mighty-poffertjes on tumblr. for more on this au, go to where she has a ton of art and stuff posted. it's awesome.
> 
> some parts of this include direct quotes from the movies, so be warned that it's not 100% original stuff at all
> 
> also, the violence warning is p much what you'd normally expect from a marvel movie so . . . yeah
> 
> //edit: this is never gonna be continued but im leaving it up anyway

Pete ducked under the other boy's fist. He tried to hit back, but missed. All the other boy, Jimmy-from-science-class, had to do was grab Pete's wrist—his fingers easily encircled it, overlapping quite a bit. Pete pretended it didn't bother him. Being a little thin was nothing to worry about.

"Who d'you think you are?" Jimmy taunted. "Can't even run a lap around the field without passing out—an' you tried to beat _me_ up?"

Jimmy pushed square in the middle of Pete's chest, and Pete went flying into the ground, back braced against the other side of the alley. "Maybe you shouldn't be so mean all the time, you ever think 'bout that?" Pete managed between labored breaths. (Asthma. He got the wind knocked out of him far too often for his liking.) "Jordan didn't do anything to you—"

"Jordan's an insolent little brat. He had it coming—trying to pick on me—" Jimmy stepped forward and stepped down on Pete's lower leg—hard. It hurt like hell, not like Pete would ever admit it.

"So you brought four of your friends to beat him up? He's two years younger than you!"

"He messed with the wrong guy," Jimmy explained, shoving more of his weight into Pete's leg. "So did you, for that matter—"

"Pick on someone your own size!"

Jimmy's weight suddenly vanished from Pete's leg. A boy had just appeared. Pete had never seen him before.

"Oh, and you fit the category?" asked Jimmy, coiling up to punch the other boy as well.

The new boy (Pete would say he was in fourth or fifth grade, if he had to guess) smirked and threw a solid punch to Jimmy's stomach, and another to his jaw. "I think I can make up for it," he said. He shoved Jimmy in the shoulders, sending him sprawling into an old garbage bin.

Who _was_ this boy?

Pete staggered to his feet and wiped blood from his nose. "Thanks," he said grudgingly.

"No problem," said the other boy. He was barely taller than Pete. "How old are you—third grade? Fourth?"

"I'm in eighth," Pete said with a scowl. "Small for my age."

"I'll say."

"I'm Pete."

"Patrick."

"You beat up guys like him often?"

Patrick shrugged. His hair was too long, curling across his shoulders. "Only to save idiots like you."

 

//

 

They grew up together from that day on, despite not quite being the same age. It was always Pete-and-Patrick, Patrick-and-Pete. Nobody questioned it. They were inseparable.

Pete had bad habits—really bad ones. He'd always pick fights with strangers over every little offense—catcalling girls late at night, disrespecting the less fortunate, telling Patrick that he wasn't tough or manly enough. Who did that, anyway? Insult an eleven-year-old for not acting like a grown man? Who could insult Patrick?

And then there was the sickness thing. Pete was honestly one of the most broken people he knew. Always coming down with something or other—some nasty cold that had morphed into pneumonia, the scarlet fever, _anything_ , and he'd be bedridden for days. He hated those times more than anything. He wouldn't be allowed out of bed, Patrick was never allowed to stay long, either.

But it wasn't just that. Every so often, he'd wake up and find himself unable to do anything other than stare at the wall and wonder why he was such a mess. Sometimes Patrick could help a little, but the best way to fix things was to wait it out. Not exactly convenient.

When the physical and emotional lows coincided . . . it was never good news. Once, Pete had gotten ahold of a rusted bottle cap and systematically scratched at his wrists, his legs, everywhere, trying to get out of his own skin. It sounded bad—it _was_ bad—but it was true.

Once, Patrick had climbed through Pete's bedroom window in the middle of the night. Pete was sitting up in bed, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the wall. He didn't move unless it was to cough uncontrollably.

Then his window creaked open—he was on the second floor, right next to an easy-to-climb tree—and in crawled Patrick, looking flushed and disheveled. Pete's foggy mind had the sudden urge to . . . _take._ But that was wrong, so he stayed still.

"How're you doing?" Patrick said softly, sitting down beside Pete. The bed creaked under his weight.

Pete looked up at Patrick, and he looked so concerned. Why was he concerned? Why would anybody be concerned over Pete? Nobody should care—he wasn't worth it—

"Small," Pete said, his voice cracking halfway through the word.

He buried his face in his (painfully bony) knees and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as they would go, trying to stop the tears.

But then he felt Patrick's arms wrap around his shoulders, and he just leaned into Patrick's chest and let himself cry, pretending that he wasn't sweaty with fever and the world wasn't closing in around him. Being near Patrick was enough.

That morning, Pete woke up to an empty bed with a dent in the other side. Patrick had stayed as long as he could, and that was enough.

 

//

 

Even at sixteen, Patrick was taller than twenty-year-old Pete. That was impressive—Patrick was about as short as they got, and yet Pete was even smaller. But Pete had always been cursed with a hollow stomach and bony wrists, thin shoulders and prominent cheekbones. This wasn't helped by his hair—he always forgot to cut it, so it grew in unruly curls that somehow made him seem even smaller. And his eyes were always rimmed in red, slightly greenish bags underneath . . . whenever Pete spent too long glaring into the mirror, he wished that makeup wasn't limited to girls. Maybe then people would look at him with something other than pity.

Everyone had used to say Pete would grow out of it, it was just an awkward phase, he'd fill out eventually—but through being sick half the time and too poor to afford much food, that never actually happened.

Patrick was never pitied—and girls liked him, that was a bonus. Sure, he was short, but so were a lot of girls, you know? At least Patrick had nice hair, when he bothered to style it, and he was good at making people laugh. He had a sort of quiet magnetism about him that Pete could never quite manage.

Pete was all extremes. Days of highs and weeks of lows, either too loud or too quiet, too pushy or too passive, and nobody (except Patrick) had patience for the way he swung back and forth between the two. There was something wrong with his brain, he knew it, but what could he do?

He could stay with Patrick, wait for him to finish school so they could share their little apartment, and ignore the little jolt of jealousy that flashed through his insides when Patrick mentioned that he'd kissed a pretty girl named Anna after they went dancing last night.

 

//

 

Pete had never kissed a pretty girl, Anna or otherwise. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

 

//

 

"You okay?"

Pete straightened himself up. He'd literally just thrown up in a trash can. "What d'you think?"

"Sorry." Patrick tugged at his hat. "Dumb question."

"S'okay. This happens a lot."

"I shouldn't've made you go on the Cyclone."

"I shouldn't've let you make me. Let's go home."

Patrick slung an arm around Pete's shoulders. "Whatever you say," he said with a grin.

That might've been when Pete fell in love. It was something about the angle of the light, the genuine smile on Patrick's face. But he didn't notice. He was too busy worrying about how long the taste of vomit would be in the back of his throat.

 

//

 

They made music, sometimes. When Pete got low, he'd end up scribbling strings of his thoughts on whatever paper was available. Patrick would take them and arrange them into songs.

Pete saved up scraps of money from the little work he could find and bought a used guitar. It only had four strings, but seeing as Patrick was a fucking musical _genius,_ he worked around that. They'd keep old cans and boxes and stuff, turning them into a rudimentary excuse for a drum set. It wasn't much, but . . .

The music would've been nothing but a broken guitar and somebody hitting empty containers if not for Patrick's voice. He had so much talent, talent that couldn't be faked even with years of singing lessons. There was just something in the way he poured all of himself into the songs that made everything beautiful.

Pete wished they had more money; they could buy some proper instruments, get Patrick a singing career. He'd be brilliant, Pete was convinced.

If only.

 

//

 

Pete was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, when the door creaked open.

"You okay?" Patrick asked immediately.

"Dunno," Pete said, sitting up and immediately regretting it. His head swam for a moment. Right—he'd forgotten lunch again. "They won't let me enlist." He clambered to his feet. "I'm not useless."

"I know you're not," Patrick said. "I'm sorry."

"S'not your fault," Pete said, walking over to their pitiful excuse for a kitchen. "I just—" He stood in front of the sink, fully intending to cook something, his fists clenched, white-knuckled. He shook his head. "Asthma," he said, forcing his fingers to open the cabinet and dig around for something to eat. "They said—the asthma alone would've disqualified me. You don't always need to breathe perfectly to fight."

Pete could tell Patrick was standing a little ways behind him. "I know that, and you know that, but they don't," Patrick said. "Besides . . . at least you aren't leaving."

"It's for a good cause, 'Trick," Pete groaned. "I'd do anything to serve my country. Give up anything." It wasn't a lie—he could feel it in his bones, he was just _meant_ to help fight the Nazis somehow.

"Anything?" Patrick said in a suddenly soft voice.

"Anything," Pete said, dumping a can of soup into a pot. "I mean it. I'd be _great_ , you know? Fighting 'til the end of the line. I'd be the best soldier—I didn't ask to get born all—all fucked up inside—" He knew it was stupid, but he'd been on edge all _week_ based on one little annoyance or another, and he felt tears prickling behind his eyes as he started up the stove. "I could work around it. I'd be fuckin' _amazing,_ you don't _understand—"_

"You're not fucked up." Patrick was standing right beside Pete now. "You don't get it—you already are amazing. You could do anything if you were allowed to. But maybe I'm selfish." Patrick's _voice_ , it was always wonderful, and Pete just didn't know how to tell him _no_ about anything. "Maybe I want to keep you around.

What did that mean, keep him around? It wasn't like Patrick had any way of laying a claim on Pete—Pete wasn't a _girl_ —

Pete said, "Maybe I'd miss you. If I left. Besides, how'd you survive without me? You're only seventeen—not old enough to survive on your own—" He expected Patrick to make some kind of sarcastic remark about how he was _too_ old enough to make it, but Patrick's only response was to pull Pete away from the stove and pull him into a tight embrace.

"I know why you want to go," Patrick whispered, voice scratchy and breath warm against Pete's ear. "And I'll support you no matter what. But I don't want you to leave."

"They'd never admit me anyway."

"Then they're a bunch of knuckleheads with no sense of who's got the guts to be a proper soldier."

It didn't matter how many times Patrick said it, or how many times Pete thought it. He never quite believed it. He never quite thought he was competent.

But he still thought he deserved a chance, just like everyone else.

 

//

 

"What do you mean, you enlisted?"

"I mean, I'm going to the war. I'm going to _fight,_ Pete." Patrick's face was glowing with excitement. Pete wanted to slap some sense into him.

"Fuck you," Pete spat, suddenly not caring that Patrick was proud of himself. He dropped the fancy military cap that Patrick had shoved into his hands. "You can't—"

Patrick . . . couldn't. It didn't matter that he'd taken care of Pete for so many years, because he was still so young (barely eighteen!) and so perfect, so untouchable, that Pete just couldn't imagine letting him go. He couldn't—What if something happened? What if Patrick didn't make it back? What if Pete never saw him again?

"I thought you'd be happy for me," Patrick said, offended. "I thought—you of all people know how important this is to me—to us. You've tried to enlist, what, two, three times now? How is this any different?"

"That was—" Pete ran a hand roughly through his hair, pulling hard enough to loosen several strands. "C'mon, 'Trick, you know that was all talk, you _know_ —" He began pacing around the room, not quite sure how to word his thoughts. "You weren't actually supposed to _go_. It's—it's, like, dangerous and shit. I mean, sure, you'd tell great stories—if you came back alive! And you're too young, anyway, who the fuck drafts an eighteen-year-old, you're practically a kid—"

"I'm not a kid!" Patrick insisted. "I'm legally old enough to get in, and I'm going to do my part. I've got just as much right as you do—you _know_ that—"

"It's not fair," Pete said flatly. "I can fight just as well as you can."

They stood there for a moment, in the middle of their tiny apartment, eyes locked, barely a foot away from each other.

Patrick ran his fingers through his hair. "I know."

Pete just wished he had the power to _do_ something about it.

 

//

 

It was another one of the bad nights.

Pete had lay awake for hours, staring at cracks in the ceiling and wondering if he'd ever get his brain to listen to him, before finally slipping into a fitful slumber.

He was full of nightmares. Most of them involved faceless Nazis firing guns at Patrick, who fell, blood spilling from his mouth, choking on his own tongue—

"Pete! Pete, c'mon, you're gonna wake the neighbors—"

Pete's eyes shot open. He was covered in a cold sweat, hands twisting in his sheets. Patrick hovered above him.

"Sorry," Pete muttered, rolling away from Patrick. "I won't do it again."

"It's not your fault. You know that."

"Yeah, okay." Pete squeezed his eyes shut, and a few tears spilled out.

"It's not."

"Okay!" Pete wished his voice hadn't risen so much—he sounded like a four-year-old having a tantrum.

They were both silent for a moment, before Patrick asked tentatively, "D'you want me to stay?"

Pete bit his lip. "Yeah."

Patrick climbed into bed beside Pete, adjusting the sheets around himself.

"Thanks," Pete muttered, scooting backwards into the solid bulk of Patrick. "I wish—" He tried (and failed) to stop his voice from cracking. "I wish you weren't going off to fight."

"You mean, you wish I wasn't going without you."

"No. I wish you weren't going at all."

Patrick reached around Pete, tucking him even closer. "I know. Sometimes I do too."

They didn't need to fill the silence; it was peaceful, somehow, a peaceful kind of melancholy.

 

//

 

"I could do this all day."

That was a flat-out lie. Pete could barely stand, much less let this asshole keep throwing punches for hours to come. But he'd done this before. If he could just _run_ , or at least wait for the other guy to get bored—

Nope, he just laughed and planted his fist right beneath Pete's ribcage. He was about to hit again when—

"Hey! Pick on someone your own size."

Shit. Patrick.

Pete caught his breath. Patrick, on the other hand, straight-up shoved the other guy towards the street. Yeah, this had happened before. Pete watched, only mildly amused, as Patrick threw a few solid punches and kicked the guy's ass out of the alley.

"Sometimes I think you like getting punched," Patrick said, a smile betraying his deadpan tone.

Pete stood up with a little effort and shrugged. "I had him on the ropes."

"You enlisted again." It wasn't a question—Patrick was holding the papers that had apparently fallen out of Pete's pocket. He glanced over them a couple times. "You know it's illegal to lie on the form. Seriously? New Jersey?"

Ignoring the slight jab, Pete glanced over Patrick's uniform—yeah, his _military uniform._ The one he'd be wearing when he went off to fight Nazis. Without Pete. "You get your orders?

"One-oh-seventh. Sergeant Patrick Stumph. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."

Pete couldn't believe it. Like, he'd _known_ , they'd both known, but this—this was real, concrete. Tomorrow. If only there was more of a warning. Maybe they could've—what? Sat around for a couple days, saying slow goodbyes and steadily filling up with fear? They didn't do well when they were both all emotional—Pete was more of a pissbaby than ever, and Patrick was out of patience for his shit. Maybe this way was better. They could part on good terms. (Maybe for the last time.)

They just sort of looked at each other for a moment, not really sure what to say. Pete was stuck between congratulating Patrick and bursting into tears right there in the middle of the alley.

Then it was over. Patrick smiled, and it looked mostly sincere. "C'mon—my last night here. Let's go do something." He slung an arm around Pete's shoulder, and really, who was Pete to argue? It wasn't _his_ last night.

But it was, really. It was his last night with Patrick, at least for a long time, and that felt like the same thing.

 

//

 

They wound up at a science expo. All of the exhibits were fascinating—some famous inventor broke his flying car. Pete couldn't bring himself to care.

He snuck off halfway through the whole thing (A double date? More like Patrick with two pretty girls and Pete standing somewhere in the background.) to enlist. Again.

Of course Patrick noticed. Pete was pretty sure he had some kind of Pete's-up-to-something-reckless sensor embedded in the back of his neck.

"What're you doing?" he asked. "Gonna be Pete from Ohio this time?"

"It's none of your business—"

"They're not gonna take you."

"You don't know that!"

"Pete, you know there's no point."

"Just because nobody's wanted me so far doesn't mean they won't this time."

"It does, though, since they've got so many reasons to say no—"

"'Trick—'Trick. There are men laying down their _lives._ I've got the right to do the same." He paused, staring Patrick straight in the eyes. "This isn't about me."

"Right," Patrick muttered. "'Cause you got nothing to prove."

That was low, really fucking low, and they both knew it.

One of the girls asked if Patrick wanted to go dancing. Pete's fingernails dug into his palms when Patrick said that he would.

"Don't do anything stupid until I get back," Patrick said, staring to walk away.

Pete suppressed the urge to run forward and wrap his arms around Patrick's waist and hold him until there was nothing left. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

"You're a punk," Patrick said, stepping forward to give Pete one of those normal, staccato hugs that normal guys wanted to give their friends. Not desperate embraces full of emotion. Not like what Pete wanted.

"Jerk," Pete said affectionately. "Be careful . . . Don't win the war 'til I get there."

Patrick just saluted at him, and really, what more could've been said?

 

//

 

There was a man—a doctor—who decided that Pete was worth taking a chance on. He was from the Strategic Scientific Reserve, whatever that meant. He decided that Pete showed character or something.

Whoever he was, Pete was eternally grateful.

He wasn't sure if Patrick classified this as stupid. He didn't care.

 

//

 

There was a British agent at the training camp. Agent Camper. She was much taller than Pete—that was nothing out of the ordinary—and she punched one of the men in the face. Pete probably fell in love right about then.

Pete wasn't stupid. He knew nobody wanted him there. (Except maybe Agent Camper. She watched him a lot—out of morbid curiosity, probably.) But he'd gotten in on a miracle, and was going to make it through on a combination of luck and perseverance.

Apparently one man would be chosen to kill Hitler.

Maybe if Pete was chosen, Patrick wouldn't resent him for taking so many risks. Actually, he was kind of putting all of his hopes on that chance.

 

//

 

Then his world was turned upside down.

A man, Johann Schmidt, had a thing for the occult. He'd gotten in too deep and experimented on himself, trying to make himself stronger. Apparently there were some negative side effects.

Pete was going to be subject to a similar experiment.

That, in and of itself, was insane. Let a handful of smart strangers poke around with his chemical makeup? Amplify everything about him? That was the opposite of what Pete wanted.

But this scientist believed that Pete had good in him or something.

For so long, nobody but Patrick had actually believed that Pete was capable of . . . well, anything. Who was he to turn down this opportunity?

 

//

 

It worked, to say the least.

Pete was taller. Still not tall, not really, but he was definitely taller than he'd been.

Maybe he'd be taller than Patrick now.

Aside from that, he noticed that he was no longer skinny. He actually had muscles—like, noticeable ones, ones that worked like muscles were supposed to. It was easy to breathe for once, and he could see what looked like a thousand colors he'd never seen before.

The world was different— _Pete_ was different—and his only thought was that he'd love for Patrick to see this.

And he could _run_. He was fast, and didn't tire out, and didn't have a fucking clue how to control himself. He didn't care.

Maybe Agent Camper would be interested in him now. He still wasn't taller than her, but at least now they could see somewhat eye-to-eye. That was something.

 

//

 

Pete was a trained monkey, putting on a show while hordes of barely-clothed women danced in formation, until Agent Camper mentioned that they were near the 107th.

Patrick's troop.

He was missing; captured or dead. This was . . . actually, this wasn't the worst-case scenario. The worst-case scenario involved Pete, still small, weak, worthless, sitting at home in the apartment they used to share, falling apart over a letter of condolences. But now?

Now he could go after Patrick. And the other men, too, save them, but . . .

It always boiled down to Patrick, in the end.

He ran on nervous energy, ignoring what almost everyone suggested. With Agent Camper and a famous mad scientist on his side, what could go wrong? He'd get into the base or whatever, save the men, save Patrick, and get the hell out of there.

 

//

 

Getting in wasn't so bad. Climb into the back of a truck. Punch a couple Nazis. Get out. Punch a Nazi. Find an entrance to the compound. Punch a Nazi.

The problem was that he didn't know where the fuck he was going.

Pete ended up wandering around quite a bit. He found some blue-glowing . . . technology, of which he pocketed a little. Someone in the SSR would know what to do with it. After a lot of trial and error, he found a room. In the floor were several trapdoors, and inside each one were a handful of soldiers—the 107th.

Punch another Nazi, and Pete had the keys. The men shuffled out of their cages (really, cages, men were being kept in cages like animals, how sick), some weaker than others, all distinctly not Patrick.

"There's an isolation ward; no one's ever come back from it."

The words chilled Pete to the bone. If Patrick was . . .

No, no, no sense giving up now. This was _not_ the time for his overly emotional bullshit.

Pete squashed the growing anxiety in his stomach and told the men where to go once they escaped the compound. He was going after Patrick.

Now there were lots of Nazis to punch, seeing as they were aware of the security breach. It wasn't hard to punch them, but it was hard to sprint around aimlessly, hoping he'd run into the isolation ward, whatever that looked like . . .

A long, dark hallway, Pete realized. A long, dark hallway with a strangely squashed-looking man holding a briefcase literally overflowing with papers. Definitely not Patrick.

Instead, Pete followed a whim and darted into a nearby room—

The room didn't hold much. Well, maybe it did, but Pete didn't care, seeing as it held a table, and on the table was Patrick.

Pete had never realized exactly how colorful he was. He couldn't wait to see Patrick in all kinds of different lights, relearn everything about him—but now wasn't the time.

He looked bad. Exhausted, for sure, with more facial hair than Pete had seen him with in a while. He was muttering his name and number, staring at the ceiling.

But was he okay?

Pete fought through the waves of relief and fear that knotted together somewhere deep inside him and rushed forward. "Patrick," he breathed. "'Trick. Oh my god." Patrick was strapped to the table. Strapped to the fucking table—what had they _done_ —

He undid the straps and leaned over Patrick, shaking his shoulders a bit. Was he safe? Was he . . . different?

"Is—Is it—"

"It's me. It's Pete."

"Pete . . . Pete."

"C'mon." Pete helped Patrick sit up. He knew that maybe there were other issues, but he couldn't help but smile. Patrick was alive, he recognized Pete—they could work through pretty much anything else. "I thought you were dead," he said, and it felt so _good_ to finally get the words out. Maybe later he'd . . . what, cry about it? Sit in the corner of some empty room, in Patrick's arms right where he belonged, and it would all feel okay?

Patrick looked him over, shock in his eyes. "I thought you were smaller."

And wow, okay, Pete had missed this, missed the way Patrick talked to him—not reverently, not deprecatingly, just . . . Patrick.

They heard an explosion or something off in the distance. It was time to run.

"What happened to you?" Patrick forced out, trying to move quickly while still putting most of his weight on Pete's shoulders.

"I joined the army." Yeah, no, Pete wasn't in the mood to admit to Patrick what a risk he'd taken, gladly putting his life on the line for what could've amounted to nothing. It would probably get him punched.

"Did it hurt?" Patrick asked, staggering in an effort to walk on his own.

"A little."

"Is it permanent?"

"So far."

Now was _not_ the time for questions; now was the time for getting the fuck out, for not dying. Not dying would be an amazing place to start.

Explosions rattled the massive room beneath them. Who had set up this place, balancing all the exit paths on metal pathways thirty feet above the ground? There was at least a thirty percent chance they'd both die—

At the other end of the metal path—the one they needed to cross in order to leave—appeared the leader of HYDRA. Schmidt. Behind him was the squashed-looking man with the briefcase.

"Captain America!" shouted Schmidt. "How exciting! I am a great fan of your work!" Pete wanted to punch him and his stupid German accent. "The doctor managed it after all. Not exactly an improvement, but still—impressive."

Yeah, no, there was no point holding back with this guy. Pete punched him in the face and watched as he staggered back, rubbing his jawbone. "You got no idea."

Schmidt's face was . . . crooked? Beneath his eye, his very skin appeared to have peeled back, revealing something red—muscle? No, that wasn't it—

"Haven't I?" he asked, and (the audacity!) punched Pete back, denting his shield. He _liked_ that shield. It had helped him through a lot of speeches that he didn't feel like memorizing. It was _on_. Pete punched Schmidt right back . . . but it was intercepted, and suddenly he was lying on his back, gun fallen into the void of fire in the room below. He arched up and kicked Schmidt square in the chest, sending him flying backwards.

The doctor had mentioned Schmidt being put through a premature version of Pete's serum . . . did that make him stronger? And did it have something to do with the weird red-eye thing he had going on?

The walkway they were standing on was pulled apart by some lever, so all Pete could do was stare as Schmidt was pulled farther and farther away from him. (But closer to Patrick. That was always nice.)

"No matter what lies the doctor told you, you see I was his greatest success!" Schmidt yelled, and peeled off his face. Literally. Beneath the layer of fake skin, he was bright red and vaguely skull-shaped. Pete honestly wasn't sure what to think, except that those were some nasty side effects. That was saying something. All the cheap drugstore medications Pete had taken over the years left him with an intimate knowledge of which one would make him throw up everything he ate, which one would leave rashes in places better left unmentioned, which ones would actually make his hair fall out—although now, none of that was applicable. He wasn't sure if this new version of himself could even get sick.

"You don't have one of those, do you?" Patrick asked, shock audible in his tone.

Thank god that the serum had been improved before it was used on Pete.

"You are deluded, Captain," said Schmidt. "You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you and I have left humanity behind." He started walking out of the room, his strangely squashed friend at his heels. "Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. No fear."

"Then how come you're running?"

Schmidt just laughed and closed a sliding door as more explosions rattled the room, and okay, that was a dramatic exit if Pete had ever seen one.

He scanned the confusing system of railings that crisscrossed the ceiling until he saw a way to what he desperately hoped was an exit. "C'mon, let's go—up there," he explained, starting up a stairway. Patrick followed, still looking a little tired, a little unhealthy. Pete shrugged off his concerns—well, pushed them to the back of his mind, where they pulsed like drums in the distance, _PatrickPatrickPatrickPatrick_.

There was a beam going from one walkway to another, and it appeared to be the only way across. It was also insanely unstable, and it was entirely possible that the beam wouldn't hold either of them for long. "Let's go, one at a time." Pete helped Patrick climb over the railing and onto the beam. It was maybe a foot wide, and constantly moving—

What if Patrick fell? He could fall to his death, right then and there, he could fall and die and Pete would never see him again—no, no, don't think like that, you'll end up falling apart and then what'll happen? Pete ignored the mess of nerves in his stomach, which jolted right up to his chest when the beam fucking _dropped_ a little, and Patrick almost lost his balance—Pete should've climbed across right beside him. It would've been safer.

But Patrick, the insane, talented bastard, somehow stayed on his feet, wobbly though he was, and sprinted for the opposite railing when it became obvious that it was going to fall.

Pete had never been more relieved and terrified at the same time.

Somehow Patrick had regained enough strength to pull himself onto the relative safety of the walkway . . . but how would Pete get there?

It felt like Pete's thoughts unclouded in realization. He wouldn't.

"There's gotta be a rope or something!" Patrick yelled, and he looked _afraid_ , as afraid as Pete felt.

But he was resigned to the truth of his own demise. "Just go!" he shouted. "Get out of here!"

"No! Not without you!"

And Pete had never really been able to refuse Patrick something, not when it was serious. In a last-ditch effort to not die, he bent back what was left of the railing and backed up as far as he could—running start, you know—and made the stupidest decision of his life. _For Patrick_ , he thought as he took a running leap over the exploding room below . . .

 

//

 

What appeared to be the entire population of the camp crowded around the entry as Pete, followed by the 107th, finished their trek through the woods.

Soldiers lined up to cheer them on. Pete had never been prouder of himself in his life—he'd done something good for his country, saved all these men, saved _Patrick,_ even when everyone had told him he couldn't. With any luck, he wouldn't get fired for sneaking off like that.

He looked over at Patrick, and they both smiled. They'd made it back. They were back together. Maybe now things would be at least sort of okay.

Pete didn't bother apologizing. He hadn't done anything wrong. Instead he explained that some of the men needed medical attention.

Almost directly in front of him was Agent Camper, lipstick not even a little out of place. Maybe she'd be proud of him.

"You're late," she said simply, stepping forward so she and Pete were eye-to-eye.

Pete ducked his head a little before pulling out his radio; it had a bullet hole in it. "Couldn't call my ride."

Agent Camper smiled up at him for a moment. She looked beautiful—Pete had never really thought of anyone the way he thought of her. (Except sometimes Patrick. But that was different. They'd known each other forever, they were best friends. No big deal.)

"Hey!" Patrick shouted. "Let's hear it for Captain America!"

Pete looked at the soldiers surrounding him, at Agent Camper smiling up at him. It was one of the happiest moments of his life.

 

//

 

"I thought I told you not to do anything stupid," Patrick said the second they were alone in the designated Captain America trailer.

Pete shrugged. "You've gotta admit, it didn't have all bad consequences—"

Patrick glared at him. "You're half a foot taller than when I last saw you. You're actually taller than me. And you don't look half-starved—quite the opposite. Joining the Army doesn't just do that to somebody. I don't look that different."

Actually, Patrick did look different. He hadn't shaved in a few days; Pete hadn't seen this much facial hair besides those sideburns since . . . well, never. His cheeks were more hollowed-out, his eyes more sunken-in. The tendons of his neck were more visible, and he was less soft, more muscular.

Still, Pete didn't miss the point. "There was . . . a bit of experimental technology involved," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Patrick's glare intensified. "Experimental technology."

"A serum, some kind of amplifying waves or something—when it was over, I looked like this."

"Was this a military-based experiment?"

"Yeah."

"Had it been properly tested?"

". . . No. Maybe, I don't know—I'm not a scientist, 'Trick, I just sort of . . . went with it."

"What, that agent woman made eyes at you and you agreed to do whatever she wanted?"

"No—why would you say that? Agent Camper isn't . . . like that, she's professional, she didn't, like, _seduce_ me—"

"I saw the way she was looking at you. I'm not stupid, Pete."

"What are you talking about? What does she have to do with any of this?"

"She—I don't—" Patrick huffed angrily. "The point is, you're an idiot who needs to work on saying no."

"Excuse me, I've said no to you a million times! Besides, look how I turned out! Taller, a little, actually strong, fast. I haven't gotten sick once since I changed! Not once—do you have any idea how rare that is? Of course you do. The point is, I got offered a miracle, and I took it, and I wish you'd just be happy for me."

Patrick paused, gnawing on his bottom lip. He eventually looked Pete in the eye and said, "Of course I am. But you could've died, Pete. And you agreed to it anyway."

"You could've died, out here fighting Nazis."

"I know, but—"

"Can we just be glad that we're alive, and we're together, at least for now?" Pete pleaded, holding out his arms to pull Patrick into a hug.

To his relief, Patrick sank foward into it, pressing his face into the crook of Pete's shoulder. "Okay," he said, and Pete pretended that tears weren't prickling at the back of his eyes.

 

//

 

Pete got a medal for sneaking away and saving some lives. He didn't bother showing up to receive it. All he'd done was what any decent person would've.

 

//

 

Instead, he worked in an underground branch of the SSR, showing Agent Camper (along with some others that he didn't really register) where HYDRA bases were. He'd noticed a few maps around the facility he'd stormed, not a big deal, and marked them on a map. Patrick had helped him figure out where they were. For some reason, Patrick wasn't allowed in most parts of the secret base. Something about confidentiality.

But Pete was being given a _team_ , one that he could destroy HYDRA bases with, and he wasn't letting this opportunity go to waste. He and Patrick, along with a handful of other great men, were going to kill Nazis together.

 

//

 

The bar was stuffy and full of half-drunk patrons, but it was perfect. Pete was there with Patrick and a handful of Patrick's friends from the 107th.

"So let's get this straight . . ."

"We barely got out of there alive and you want us to go back?"

Pete paused for a moment, suddenly realizing exactly how crazy his proposition must've sounded to them. "Pretty much."

"Sounds rather . . . fun, actually."

Two of them, the French men, conversed in what Pete assumed was French for a moment. One of them said, "We're in."

"Hell, I'll always fight," said the one with the impressive mustache. "But you gotta do one thing for me first."

"What's that?" Pete asked.

"Open a tab."

Everyone laughed, and Pete suddenly wished he could still get drunk—regardless, he ordered another round.

A couple minutes later found Pete walking into another section of the bar, where Patrick sat at the bar, happily nursing a beer. "Told you—they were all idiots."

"How 'bout you?" Pete asked, sitting down next to Patrick. "You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, I'm following him." Patrick looked up at Pete, who wondered exactly what he'd done to deserve a friend like Patrick.

"But you're keeping the outfit, right?" Patrick asked, nudging Pete in the side.

"You know what?" Pete looked around for a moment until he noticed the poster featuring the star-spangled man with a plan—and a TOUR CANCELLED notice. He wondered if anyone would make the connection between him and the saluting man in a gaudy suit. "It's kinda growing on me."

Pete noticed several heads turning to the entrance, and followed suit. He didn't regret it—in walked Agent Camper, looking like the opposite of an agent in an uncharacteristically tight red dress.

"Captain," she said, stepping forward.

"Agent Camper."

"Ma'am," Patrick added quietly.

"There's some equipment for you to try—do you want to leave?"

"Sounds good."

Agent Camper looked over at Patrick, whose eyes were looking from her to Pete.

"I see your squad is preparing for duty."

"You don't like music?" Patrick asked.

"I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing." Agent Camper hadn't looked away from Pete.

"Then what're we waiting for?"

"The right partner. 0800, Captain." And with that, Agent Camper walked away.

"Yes, ma'am, I'll be there," Pete called after her retreating figure.

"I'm invisible," Patrick added, laughing bitterly. "I—I'm turning into you. This is a horrible dream."

"Don't take it so hard," Pete said, clapping Patrick on the shoulder. "Maybe she's got a friend." A familiar twist manifested in Pete's stomach at the thought of Patrick with some faceless brunette. He stoutly ignored it.

 

//

 

It was eight in the morning—0800—and Pete wasn't sure where to find Agent Camper. Instead, he ran into the thin blonde secretary who appeared to do nothing other than sit around and observe everyone.

"Excuse me—I'm here for trying out some new equipment."

"You'll be in the next room," she said, tilting her head towards a doorway.

Pete nodded and looked around for a moment, not really sure what to do from here.

"Of course, you're welcome to wait," she said. She put down her newspaper and stood up. "I read about what you did."

"Oh—yeah, well that's, you know, just doing what needed to be done."

"It sounded like more than that. You saved nearly four hundred men."

Pete wasn't sure if he liked the way she was looking at him or not—like he was a particularly tasteful piece in an art gallery. "Really, it's not a big deal."

"Tell that to their wives." She took a few clacking steps forward, and Pete steeled himself for . . . something.

"Uh, I don't think they were all married!" he insisted, sure nerves were creeping into his voice.

"You're a hero."

"Well—that depends on, like, the definition—"

"The women of America owe you their thanks."

What. What was happening. Why was she grabbing Pete by the tie _what the fuck—_

"And, seeing as they're not here." She pulled Pete into a semi-secluded corner and shoved their faces together.

Okay, so this was kissing. It wasn't . . . completely horrible . . . sort of . . .

"Captain!"

Pete and the blonde secretary split apart at Agent Camper's biting tone.

"They're ready for you, if you aren't otherwise occupied."

That was a mistake. Pete wiped lipstick off his mouth and hurried away. "Agent Carter—wait."

"Looks like finding a partner wasn't that hard after all."

"Meagan, that's not what you thought it was—" Pete shoved his tie back into his shirt.

"I don't think anything, Captain, not one thing. You always wanted to be a soldier and now you are, just like all the rest."

"How do I know you haven't been sleeping around?"

"You still don't know a bloody thing about women."

Damn. Pete was really fucking bad at this. He wasn't sure if he cared.

Pete was shown some decent weaponry—armor that easily withstood knives, and a long row of shields. He picked one. Made of something called vibranium. He didn't really care about the science behind it, but he liked the way it felt in his hand.

Also, it withstood several bullets. Which Agent Camper was all too happy to fire at him in the name of testing whether it worked.

Clearly kissing random secretaries wasn't the best way to a woman's heart.

 

//

 

His new uniform consisted of the shield (of course) and a much less costume-like variation of the Captain America suit. Pete carried at least two or three guns, a knife, and a poison capsule (for emergencies only) at all times.

He also had a little compass with Agent Camper's picture pressed into the top. Sometimes he'd unfold it and just look at her for a while, ignoring Patrick's complaints—she's just a woman, you barely know her, why do you think you've got her to come home to?

Pete was pretty sure he was in love with Meagan Camper. Not that he really knew what it was like—the closest he'd ever come was Patrick, but that was different, it was always different, they were friends. Patrick wasn't some dame. He was Patrick.

 

//

 

Pete's new team was amazing. They'd mastered the art of shooting things in the right order and getting out of bases before they exploded. You know what was even more amazing? Patrick.

Somewhere along the line, he'd become a sharpshooter—an amazing one. His accuracy was painfully good, even from a distance that even Pete's enhanced eyesight had trouble with. Pete wasn't sure when he'd learned this, but it was just another item in the long list of things he admired Patrick for.

When all of Pete's team put their heads together, they could play to each other's strengths and come up with nearly foolproof plans to destroy HYDRA bases in increasingly creative ways. It was everything Pete could've asked for—except for all the killing. He wasn't a big fan of that part.

But he pushed through it, with Patrick's help. They both had nightmares now. Nobody ever told them how war fucked up soldiers' brains. At night, they'd usually sleep pressed up against each other, a constant reassurance that they were both alive and well. Pete wasn't sure what Patrick's nightmares were about, but his almost all circled around losing Patrick, and he really didn't want to read too far into that.

It was okay. As long as they were together, nothing could go wrong, right?

 

//

 

"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?"

"Yeah, and I threw up?"

"This isn't payback, is it?"

Pete laughed. "Now why would I do that?"

"We were right," said one of the other men. "The doctor's on the train. HYDRA dispatched and gave them permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he's going, they must need him bad."

Pete looked at Patrick—Patrick, with steel in his eyes and a set to his jaw. Pete put on his helmet and prepared to ride the zipline of death.

They had about a ten-second window unless they wanted to end up squashed against the mountainside, and Pete was terrified out of his mind. Naturally, he went first.

Jumping onto the train was surprisingly easy. So was getting in. It was the fighting that was the hard part.

Once inside, Pete tentatively made his way up through the cars, Patrick a couple steps behind him, until a door slammed shut right between them. Patrick was shooting at someone on his side of the glass, but Pete was a little preoccupied by the man on his side—in some sort of metal suit of armor, fighting with those blue-powered weapons that Pete was honestly sick of by now.

Pete's pistol didn't do much against the other soldier's weapons, but he managed to get close enough, using his shield for protection, to kick the other guy in the chest and punch him a few times, effectively incapacitating him. He used the blue guns to break down the door between him and Patrick.

He ducked in, tossed Patrick a spare pistol, and shoved some heavy luggage into the Nazi's head. Patrick used the opportunity to shoot him down.

"I had him on the ropes," Patrick said.

"I know you did." Pete turned around . . .

And there was the weapon-armor guy he'd just tried to beat. "Get down!" Pete yelled, pushing Patrick away and ducking behind the shield right as the blue weapons fired. The side of the train was blown out entirely and Pete was sprawled against the undamaged wall, his shield lying on the ground.

He stood as Patrick, the miracle worker, grabbed the shield and shot at the Nazi, before he was blasted out of the gaping hole.

Shit—shit, please, let him be okay—Pete threw his shield into the Nazi's chest and climbed out of the train, holding on to a railing on the flap of metal that remained, the flap of metal that Patrick was clinging to.

"Patrick!" he shouted, edging towards the other end. "Hang on!"

Patrick tried to move towards Pete, but the railing he was holding started to give under his weight.

"Grab my hand!" Pete insisted frantically, reaching out for Patrick, trying to save him, he had to save him—

But it was too late. The railing broke off, and with an anguished scream, Patrick fell into the snow-covered ravine below.

"No!" Pete yelled, still reaching out as if he could do something. "No! Patrick!"

He almost, _almost_ let go right then and there. He was sorely tempted to just die—that's what it felt like, anyway, his heart being crushed and split in two, all at once.

Something stopped him. It was probably the thought of what Patrick would say if Pete just let go—something about how stupid it was, and how there was still a war to win, how Pete didn't even finish the job he set out to do in the first place.

So Pete climbed back up into the train, regardless of how much he wanted to fall with Patrick, and stared out of its side, tears freezing halfway down his cheeks. "Patrick . . ."

 

//

 

He was successful, to say the least. Pete kissed Agent Camper, which was much more pleasant than his first experience. Hitler and Schmidt were both killed, and HYDRA's plan to take over the world foiled. He saw what appeared to be a portal to another universe. He also drove a plane full of explosives into the ocean, himself included.

Pete's last thought was of Patrick. He wondered if they'd meet again.


End file.
